Part 5

“That is not my affair,” answered the foreigner. “I do my duty without asking why!”

“Why, man,” the Englishman remarked, his amusement almost getting the better of his annoyance, “you’ll have the whole of our navy buzzin’ round your ears in no time!”

“We will fight!” retorted the foreigner with impatience.

“Humph!” muttered the skipper. “The deuce you will! Meanwhile, may I ask what you mean to do with this ship?”

“Our navy has orders to sink and destroy the British fleet, and to capture or burn all merchant ships!”

Sims gasped.

“Yes,” continued the lieutenant grandiloquently. “A prize crew shall be put on board, and she shall be taken to Duala!”

“But I’m not carrying contraband of war!” protested the captain, longing to go for the foreigner with his fists.

“All the English are our enemies!” declared the other. “Come,” he continued rudely, “I am not used to bandy words with a merchant captain. I wish to see your papers, and I must warn you that, if there is any attempt at resistance, my ship will fire on you!”

Sims’s longing to strike out almost got the better of him, but he saw that it was no use arguing any further, so swallowed the insult without replying.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, leading the way to his cabin.

The foreign officer beckoned to one of his men before he disappeared under the poop, and a minute or two later the Red Ensign was hauled down and replaced by the white black-crossed ensign of the German navy.

Seeing it, the anger of the British crew nearly overcame them, and for some moments their insensate rage tempted them to attack their captors. They cursed and swore fluently, but eventually their discretion got the upper hand, for they saw how useless it was to resist.

An hour later the ship had been taken possession of by a prize crew of fifteen men and a warrant officer, under the command of a lieutenant. Having transferred them, the cruiser proceeded on her way, and, threatened by the revolvers and rifles of their gaolers, the unfortunate Englishmen were compelled to go to their posts and work their vessel, steering towards the south-east for her new destination.

This having been done, the captain and officers were locked in their respective cabins, the crew were driven down into the forecastle, while armed sentries pacing the deck effectually prevented any intercommunication.

The _Evelyn MacDonald_ was a prize.

III

The next morning the ship was still standing to the south-eastward on her course for Duala.

The lieutenant in command was a better-tempered individual than the officer who had first come on board, and intimated to Captain Sims that he and his officers would be permitted to use the saloon for their meals, while they would also be allowed one hour’s exercise on deck in the morning and afternoon. He informed him, however, that any abuse of this privilege would be visited by more rigorous treatment, and that if any attempt were made to capture the vessel, the prisoners would instantly be fired upon. The only members of the crew who were not confined were Horatio and the steward, for they, between them, were responsible for the cooking and serving of all the meals throughout the ship, for captors and prisoners alike. Even they, however, were closely watched, for there was always an armed sentry somewhere near the galley while they were at work.

Horatio went about his labours in a despondent manner, which formed a complete contrast to his cheery disposition of a week before. He had plenty to do, but chafed at the idea of being ordered about by foreigners, and every time he looked at the foreign flag flying at the peak his blood boiled with mingled rage and humiliation. Puny and insignificant as he was, he was British to the core. British blood flowed in his veins, and he seriously thought of attacking the sentries single-handed with his chopper. He even asked the steward’s advice as to how it could best be done, but the older man, realising the utter futility of such an attempt, made him, after great difficulty, promise that he would not try it.

Foiled in his ideas of active measures, the boy then set to work to think of some other way of recapturing the ship. Scheme after scheme was evolved in his busy brain to be cast aside as useless, but suddenly, two days later, an idea, a great and glorious idea, flashed into his mind. He determined to try it.

Captain Sims in his cabin was also thinking out plan after plan to regain possession of the ship, but he gave them all up in turn as hopeless, for arms or ammunition he had none, and he knew well enough that the minute an attack was made the English would be shot down with ruthless indifference.

On the morning of the third day after the capture, he realised that the anxiety and the unusual sedentary life were beginning to make him positively ill. Instead of turning out for breakfast, therefore, he remained in his bunk, and soon afterwards someone came to his cabin door, unlocked it, and announced that breakfast was ready.

“Is that you, Chivers?” he called.

“Yus, sir,” said the boy, opening the door and putting his head in.

“Look here. I’m feeling a bit seedy this mornin’. You might bring my meals in here on a tray, will you?”

“Yus, sir,” said the urchin.

Ten minutes later he returned with a well-laden tray.

“Capten, sir,” he whispered, when he had laid out his master’s breakfast.

“Hallo, sonny! What is it?” asked Sims.

The boy bent his head down until his lips were close to the captain’s ear.

“Please, sir,” he began, “’ave we any---- Yus, sir, quite a fine day!” he suddenly remarked in his ordinary voice, for his sharp ear had heard footsteps outside.

For an instant the skipper was surprised, for he could not guess the meaning of the youth’s manœuvre. Then it suddenly flashed across his mind, and he realised the boy had something important to tell him. They went on talking naturally, until the footsteps died away.

“Now, Chivers,” said Sims softly, “what is it?”

“Please, sir,” whispered the boy, “’ave we any drugs aboard?”

“Drugs? Whatever for?”

“Ter lay art them blighted foreigners, sir!” exclaimed the blood-thirsty Horatio. “Me an’ th’ stooard cooks orl their grub, an’ I thought as ’ow we cud drug it, sir!” His eyes twinkled with excitement as he unfolded his idea.

“What?” whispered the captain, seeing a ray of hope. “And then recapture the ship while they’re asleep? Is that what you mean?”

The urchin nodded, and anxiously awaited the captain’s verdict.

Horatio, in the literature of the “penny dreadful” type he was so fond of reading, had often come across cases where the villains achieved their nefarious ends by drugging their victims, and he did not see why the same scheme should not be carried out on this occasion.

Sims thought hard for a minute or two before replying. Then a pleased smile flitted across his face, and he patted the boy on the shoulder.

“Boy,” he said at last, “you’re a cunning little devil!”

Horatio blushed with pleasure.

Sims went on in a low voice: “I don’t see why your scheme shouldn’t work. D’you see that medicine chest there?” He pointed to a little teak cabinet on the bulkhead of the cabin.

Horatio said he did.

“The key’s on the hook alongside it,” said the skipper. “Open it!”

The boy fitted the key into the lock with a hand trembling with excitement.

“It’s open, sir,” he said expectantly.

“Right at the back you’ll see a----”

Sims hesitated a moment, for footsteps sounded outside. “You’ll see a bottle of quinine,” he concluded in his ordinary voice, for the footsteps halted before his door.

It was just as well he altered the last part of his sentence, for just at that moment the door opened and the foreign lieutenant entered.

Horatio’s face went white, and his knees knocked together with fright, but the officer saw nothing unusual in what was going on.

“Goot morning!” he said affably. “I am ver’ sorry to hear you are ill, captain. Vat is ze matter?”

“I’ve a touch of fever again,” replied the skipper, avoiding the other’s eye. “I’m just seeing if there’s any quinine in the medicine chest!” He lied bravely, but felt horribly nervous all the same.

“Vell,” replied the officer, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Vere is ze quinine?”

The captain’s heart nearly stopped with anxiety, for the foreigner went to the medicine chest and began examining the labels on the different bottles and phials.

Supposing he suspected? The thought was too awful.

[Illustration: “It’s laudanum. Here, take it and hide it somewhere.”

_To face page 77_ ]

But Horatio, although he felt as if his knees would give way, retained his presence of mind, and snatching up the nearest bottle, held it up and pretended to read the label. It was not quinine, but that did not matter, and taking it across to the captain he thrust it into his hand.

“Here it is, sir,” he remarked.

To his relief, the lieutenant gave up his search.

“Ah, does Inglesh words!” he exclaimed. “I can speak ze Inglesh ver’ vell, but to read him is more deefecult!”

“Yes,” agreed the skipper with a nervous grin. “They are a bit hard to understand.”

“Vell,” resumed the other pleasantly, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Ef zere is anyzing you vant, please to let me know. I say good morning now!” He made a courtly bow and left the cabin.

“Oh, lor’!” gasped the boy with a sigh of relief, as the footsteps died away. “I thought he’d spot wot we was up to!”

“Now,” whispered Sims. “Right at the back at the left of the top row, you’ll see a small blue bottle with an orange-coloured label.”

Horatio dived his hands into the cabinet and withdrew it with the bottle in his grasp.

“Is this it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“I think so,” said Sims. “Bring it here.”

The boy brought it across, and examining the label the captain saw it was the one he wanted.

“D’you know what this is?” he asked, tapping it.

“No, sir.”

“It’s laudanum. There’s enough in this to send the whole lot of ’em to sleep. Lucky it’s a fairly weak solution, so it won’t actually kill ’em. Here, take it,” he continued, “hide it somewhere!”

Horatio thrust the bottle into the front of his tattered shirt.

“What must I do with it, sir?” he asked mysteriously, for he felt as if he was assisting to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or something equally desperate.

“Shove it in their food, somehow. D’you think you can do it?”

“They orl ’as corfee arter their supper!” whispered the boy, with his eyes opening very wide. “’Ow’ll that do, sir?”

“Very well, I should think,” answered Sims. “What time do they have it?”

“’Bout eight o’clock, sir.”

“Well, empty the bottle in their coffee when you make it. You take the men’s dinners to the forecastle, don’t you?”

Horatio nodded.

“Well, tell ’em, then,” hissed the skipper, “to be ready to make a dash for the deck at half-past eight this evening; d’you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell the officers too, if you get a chance. Now run along. They may smell a rat if you’re here too long. You quite understand what to do, don’t you?”

“Orl rite, sir. I understan’. I’ve got it orl fixed up in me ’ead!” And so saying the boy departed.

Sims lay back on his bunk with a sigh of relief. The plan seemed so very simple; but yet, somehow, too simple to be successful.

Would it succeed? He wondered.

IV

The weary day drew on, and to the captain the hours seemed interminable. He tried to read, but the words conveyed nothing to his brain, for his feverish anxiety would not allow him to concentrate his mind upon his book.

His meals were brought to him by Horatio, who informed him that the men had been told of what was to take place, but the day passed slowly, and he was not sorry when the sound of voices and the clattering of knives and forks outside in the saloon told him that the foreigners were at their supper.

His watch was hanging on the bulkhead, and at three minutes past eight precisely he heard chairs being pushed back and footsteps leaving the saloon. Then came dead silence, only disturbed by the ripple of water as the ship drove along and the footsteps of someone walking up and down on the poop.

He waited in breathless anxiety. Ten minutes past eight, twenty past. Would the time never pass? The minute hand of his watch seemed to be moving terribly slowly, somehow.

He was just beginning to feel nervous, when the footsteps above ceased. He listened intently. Twenty-five minutes past!

He crept out of his bunk and tiptoed noiselessly to the door.

Half-past eight, but nothing happened.

He trembled violently in his overwhelming excitement. Suppose the men had decided that the risk was too great. Suppose--a hundred and one possibilities flashed through his mind.

The hand of the watch crept on to two minutes past the half-hour, and just as he had given up hope, he heard the sudden rush of feet on the ladder leading to the poop.

Nerving himself for an effort, he took a run and hurled himself at the door, hearing as he did so a confused shouting on the poop, followed by two revolver shots. He was no light weight, and the stout panels ripped and crashed as he flung himself at them, and, falling through the debris, he found himself on all fours in the saloon. Picking himself up he dashed out on deck and up the ladder to the poop, and what he saw brought a wave of thankfulness to his heart. The British were in possession. The prize-master lay senseless by the wheel, while the warrant officer, who had evidently been on watch at the time of the attack, had been disarmed, and was now being bound by some of the _Evelyn MacDonald’s_ crew.

Farther aft, two more of the enemy lay prone with their weapons beside them, and looking along the upper deck he saw more of his own men binding the others.

“What’s happened?” he inquired breathlessly, making his way towards the nearest group of men.

“Lor’ bless ye, sir!” exclaimed Ginger Smith excitedly; “they wus orl as ’elpless as babes. Th’ orficer ’ere fired ’is pistol afore we biffed ’im on th’ ’ead, but orl th’ others wus lyin’ like cawpses! Lor’, it wus a gran’ idea of ’Oratio’s, an’ no bloomin’ herror!”

“But where is Horatio?” asked the captain, looking round and not seeing the boy.

“’E wus on deck when we belted this ’ere cove on th’ nut,” remarked one of the other seamen.

“What’s become of him, I wonder?” said Sims anxiously, for he had a sudden horrible feeling that the boy had been killed or flung overboard.

He left the poop and ran forward to the galley and put his head inside.

Twilight was fast approaching, but he saw a small white figure sitting on a locker.

“Chivers!” he said concernedly, for there was something about the youth’s attitude he did not like. “Chivers! Is that you?”

“Yus, sir, it’s me,” said the figure in a husky whisper.

“What’s the matter with you?” queried the captain sympathetically.

“It ’urts somethink crool!” whimpered Horatio.

“What hurts, sonny?”

“Please, sir, that cove wi’ a black beard fired ’is pistol an’ th’ bullet went through me arm!” He showed his left arm, from a neat puncture in which the blood was slowly trickling through his fingers.

“Poor little chap!” said Sims huskily. “Come on, I’ll help you aft, and we’ll put a bandage on it and soon make it better. Don’t forget, my boy,” he added, “it was you who saved the ship!”

“Thank you, sir,” whispered Horatio, as his shipmates clustered round eager to help.

V

Little more remains to be said. Horatio’s wound did not prove very serious, for the bullet had gone through without touching the bone, and when he had been bandaged, the drugged Germans were clapped below in the forecastle with an armed seaman to guard them, and once more the ship was turned round on her course for the Cape of Good Hope.

Some days later the captain of H.M.S. _Yorkshire_, a 22-knot cruiser, on her way to Simon’s Bay, was rather surprised when a signalman knocked at his cabin door and informed him that a British steamer was flying a signal to the effect that she had prisoners she wished to transfer.

“Prisoners!” he remarked, in a surprised voice. “Humph, some of their own fellows kicked over the traces, I suppose!”

Nevertheless, the cruiser’s course was altered to close the tramp, and stopping abreast of her, she lowered a boat.

The cutter soon arrived alongside the _Evelyn MacDonald_, and a little midshipman, followed by two armed marines, clambered on board.

“I’ve got seventeen prisoners for you,” remarked Sims, when they had saluted each other.

“Seventeen what?” cried the small officer in amazement, fingering his dirk.

“Seventeen officers and men of the German navy!”

The middy opened his eyes in astonishment. “But how the dickens did they get here?” he demanded.

Sims told him what had happened.

“Well, this is the rummiest business I’ve ever heard of,” declared the future Nelson. “Oh, lor’, though,” he added, “it’s a bit tough her capturing you, isn’t it?”

“I should jolly well think it was, mister,” agreed the skipper with a smile.

“By the way, captain,” remarked the midshipman, as the prisoners were being transferred to the boat, “I should awfully like to shake hands with that Horatio of yours!”

Horatio, much to his disgust and blushing furiously, was pushed forward and solemnly introduced to the young officer, who gravely saluted, and then wrung him by the hand.

“I say, old chap,” he suddenly remarked, bursting with curiosity, “you might let me have a look at the hole in your arm!”

Horatio was forced to untie his bandage and exhibit the neat little puncture.

“I’d give a year’s pay for that!” sighed the middy, for he had never been in action himself.

The officers and men of the _Evelyn MacDonald_ broke into a roar of laughter, in which even the solemn-faced marines joined.

Half-an-hour later the prisoners had been safely transferred, and the man-of-war, with her crew cheering themselves hoarse--for the story had become known all over the ship--was steaming off to the southward.

Soon afterwards the steamer followed suit, and in due course arrived at her destination.

Horatio, I hear, is now serving in the Royal Navy, but he still bears a scar on his left arm, and he is not a little proud of it.

V

THE SALVAGE OF THE _CASHMERE_

“Well,” remarked Captain Morris of the tug _Evening Star_, as he slowly refilled his pipe, “things have been pretty bad wi’ us fur th’ last six months. As ye know, mate, I sank all me capital in this old hooker when me poor missus died. The craft’s cost me more’n I care to think about, what wi’ th’ coal, upkeep, an’ wages, and we’ve not had a job wuth calling a job fur a long time. There’s Tom’s schoolin’ to think about, too,” he continued, glancing at his sixteen-year-old son, who sat on the cushioned locker beside him.

Johnson, the mate, nodded, but said nothing.

“Why don’t you let me take that job at the shipbuilding yard, father?” said the boy. “I should earn enough to live on, and then I should cost you nothing.”

“I don’t grudge the money, my son,” continued the skipper; “don’t think that. You’ve bin a good lad, an’ ’tis money well spent. I did want to get ye that job along o’ th’ Wireless Telegraphy Company. The work here in the yard’ll lead to nothing, an’ ye’ll be stuck here all yer life.”

Tom himself did not fancy the idea of spending his days in the little seaport town of Halmouth, though, to save his father expense, he was quite prepared to enter Mr. Saunders’ shipbuilding yard.

“But,” he said, “if nothing else turns up, I must take what I can.”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Morris with a sigh.

“What are ye thinkin’ o’ doin’, then, cap’n?” broke in the mate. “Goin’ to chuck the sea?”

“I’ll have to sell this craft an’ get a job ashore,” growled the skipper. “The Tug an’ Lighter Company have made me an offer for her, an’, though ’tis two hundred less than I gave for her two year ago, I’ll have to take it. Buyin’ an’ sellin’ are two different things, an’ she’s runnin’ sweeter now than ever she was; besides, look at the money I’ve spent on her.”

The mate muttered something under his breath, for he did not like the idea of serving under some other skipper.

“Well,” continued Morris, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, and rising to his feet and stretching himself, “’tis close on time; we’d best be getting off. Tom, my son, you’d best turn in; it’ll give ye a chance of gettin’ to sleep afore we starts lollopin’ about outside.”

“No, father,” exclaimed the boy; “I’m not a bit tired, and I’d much rather stay up with you.”

“Right ye are, then,” replied his father with a smile; “but when I was your age I liked my bed a fair sight more’n you do.”

With this concluding remark he went on deck, followed by Tom and the mate.

The _Evening Star_ lay anchored in the harbour, while all round her glittered the lights of the coasting craft, taking shelter from the bad weather outside.

The little vessel rolled gently on the slight swell coming in from seaward, while overhead the detached masses of cloud, scurrying across the face of the sky on the strong south-westerly wind, showed that it was blowing a full gale. The glass was also falling rapidly, so there was every prospect of the weather outside being bad.

Tom, at the time of which I write, was studying at a school some distance away from Halmouth, and was now home on his holidays. He was trying for a position in a wireless telegraphy company, a profession in which the prospects were good, and being naturally intelligent and a hard worker, he had every prospect of success in the entrance examination which was due to be held in six months’ time.

The news that his father would not be able to afford his school fees any more came as rather a shock; but, though it was a bitter disappointment, he put a brave face upon it.

As a rule he spent his holidays with his unmarried aunt, who had a little house in Halmouth; but, if the truth must be told, he was not over-fond of the austere old lady, who had such strange ideas as to how boys should behave; so more often than not he lived on board the _Evening Star_ with his father, and looked upon the occasional trips to sea as a great treat.

Once on deck, the skipper glanced round with his practised eye.

“I don’t like the look of the weather,” he observed to Johnson; “look at all that wrack up there to wind’ard.”

“Looks pretty bad,” agreed the mate.

“We must go out,” said the skipper, “for all the weather may be. Are ye all ready for gettin’ the anchor up?”

“All ready, cap’n.”